


sentiment

by noahlikeswaffles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poor Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 08:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30086217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahlikeswaffles/pseuds/noahlikeswaffles
Summary: he knows it will kill him. he knows his feelings aren't returned. but he cannot bear to loose them.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

"Goodness, sir, are you alright?" Anthea looked up from her mobile.

The British Government supressed the cough that plagued his throat, crinkling his pocket square in his grasp. He watched through the window as they pulled away from his brother's crime scene, raindrops slithering down the tempered glass. 

"Fine," He growled, and she looked away. His chest was aching, but he wouldn't make a scene of himself. He adjusted himself, swallowing thickly to calm the urge, but failing as he gasped, choking when he saw it.

Folded in the fine silk fabric, was a smooth white petal.

He didn't often do this, he thought, as he dragged on the cigarette. But to clear his lungs, he'd do anything. To kill the things that had began to sprout, petals that littered his bedclothes, clogged his drains, each lifeless bud like the ticking of a clock. 

Tucked in his waistcoat, his pocket watch actually ticked. 

His fingers grasped the cool gold tightly, smoothing over the engraved letters of his initals, a graduation present from Uncle Rudy. 

Feeling masochistic, he popped it open and stared at the photograph inside, and took a worryingly deep inhale of the cigarette. 

He knew it wasn't going to work. But the nicotine would feel nice either way. 

But in fact, this only made it worse, he realized, as he choked on the burning, charring smoke. He couldn't stop coughing, hacking, retching, and he fell forward. One hand grasped his chest, one hand held him upright on the table. 

His eyes were already aglaze with tears when an ashy, smoked white gardenia fell to the floor at his feet, it's petals darkened and hazed with gray. 

He wiped at his mouth in disgust, backing slowly away from the wretched thing. 

When his back hit the far wall he wailed, holding his pale smooth hand out, mouth held agape in sheer and absolute devastation. 

A thin coating of pink blood along his fingers. 

"Boss, you really can't do this, you need a doctor!" Anthea shouted as he knelt by his desk, tears streaming down his face, whole flower after whole flower littering the ground at his feet, his face darkening with the lack of oxygen. 

"N-o!" He choked, banging the floor with his fist, each word straining to escape his crimson stained lips. "I-I'm f-ine"

"Who are they for, sir? Who is it?!" She shouted, patting his back, her eyes frightened. Mycroft could only cry and cough.

"The Detective Inspector?" She offered, voice a quiet whisper. 

Mycroft was silent, head thrown between his elbows, sucking in as much air as he could.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes..." She sighed, with such pity and emotion Mycroft could scream. No! No! He was fine! This was fine! He was not going to be killed by such childish, foolish, pedestrian sentiments...by...infatuation! This was absurd!

" _Mr. Holmes_ ," Anthea gasped, holding out a whole pink carnation, it's petals dipped in scarlet blood. Her fingers shook, and Mycroft saw genuine fear in her usually cold, objective eyes. It terrified him. "Mr. Holmes I'm calling a doctor. I'm calling a doctor right now!" She stood, but Mycroft grabbed her by the hand, shaking his head. 

"No, Anthea, don't."

"Mycroft- the blood- if you don't go to surgery you'll be dead in months, sir, _months_!"

"Anthea it is my wish to abstain from treatments, it would be illegal for you to fo-" He chocked out a cough, "-force me," 

"Then I'm calling the Detective Inspector, sir, you cannot die. You can't. For the sake National Security is imperative you are alive." 

Mycroft was wheezing breaths and Athena watched in agony as he slumped forward, a bouquet of bloody blooms beneath him as he collapsed. 

"Oh my God," She gasped, flipping him onto his back and finding his mobile in his pocket, clicking hidden the emergency button. There was only one man in the country with a button like that. She set it aside and knelt above him, hands against his sternum, beginning compressions. 

God help England if Mycroft Holmes doesn't live, she thought, God help us all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Gregory was at the pub when it happened the first time. Nothing serious, just a really bad cough. A pack-a-day habit will do that to a man. It hadn't gone away, though. The drunker he got, the more he thought of... _him_. And the more he thought of _him_ , the more he coughed. 

He coughed until a passionate dark rose petal came up and lodged between his teeth. He frowned, pulling it out and placing it on a napkin. 

The bartender looked at him with worry. 

He paid his tab and left. 

Sherlock didn't really look twice when he left the scene to go hurl his lungs out in an alleyway. Greg wondered if that kid even realized he was around when he was off on his brilliance like that.

It wasn't until he'd gotten as many of the blossoms out as he could, dumped them into the rubbish bin, and turned that he realized he wasn't alone. 

"Greg-" John Watson frowned, "were those...?

"Oh, that's nothin, someone must've gotten lazy throwin their flowers away and left 'em over here." God, could he have come up with a lamer excuse if he'd tried?!

"Right." John furrowed his brows. "Well. Who ever they were, they need to see a doctor, because that many blooms means that it's rather far along."

"What's far along?" Greg played along, disguising a dry, itchy cough as clearing his throat. 

"Hanahaki, stage 2 if I were to diagnose."

"Ah,"

"And they should see a doctor immediately when the blood starts," John added, crossing his arms and glaring at the DI. "because after that, there's no doctor in the world who could stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Oh for fucks sake! Who is it? Molly?!"

Greg shuffled his feet, crossing his own arms defensively. "Nobody, there's nobody."

"Greg. You're my friend. My best friend, second to his nibs over there," John cocked his head back to where Sherlock was looking at some jelly footprints. "And I may not be a genius, but I'm a damn good doctor, and I know that there's no way you get Hanahaki without there being _somebody_."

"Well, my somebody ain't ever gonna want someone like me, so it's better not to think of h-" Greg couldn't stop himself from coughing again, and John was with him in a heartbeat, patting on his back. Greg held his hands over his mouth to catch the petals that were erupting out of him, heart sinking when his hands were dampening. 

He immediately tossed them before John could see, gave him a nod and left. Left the scene. He knew he wouldn't get fired, but his boss wouldn't like it. But there was no way he was staying. 

He didn't need a fucking lecture about it. He knew he was dying. He knew that every time he saw the gorgeous, mysterious, auburn man that he was closer to his death. 

He knew that his hands, shoved in his pockets, were covered in his own blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg was working on the case write up when the text came in.

_St. Thomas Hospital ICU_ _-MH_

Greg fished his phone from his pocket and was immediately on his feet, barely remembering his coat. 

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Sally called after him.

"I have to go, I might be in tomorrow!" He didn't even think of the consequences of him continually leaving work like this. If Mycroft was texting him then Sherlock was in danger.

Well, if John was right he wouldn't be working too much longer. He coughed in the elevator. A very confused janitor might clean it up he thought, and wonder why there was a trail of white lilies from the third floor. 

The drive to the hospital felt extraordinarily long, and he felt a smidge bad when he flicked his sirens on. 

What the hell am I doing? He laughed to himself. Honestly, he had no ideas. He was a dying man, in love with a man who couldn't ever love him back. And he would come when Mycroft summoned him, always. If being Sherlock's handler was what he could give his love, he would happily give forever. 

"I'm sorry, there isn't a Sherlock Holmes admitted here, Inspector, are you sure you've got the right place?" The desk nurse looked at him as she searched the computer. Lestrade stuffed his badge in his coat with a huff.

"Yes! I'm sure! His brother was here, about 6'1", real posh thing, auburn hair, arctic blue eyes?" He wheezed, banging his fist against his chest.

The nurse only blinked at him, and he could see in her eyes she understood. 

"Brother's name?"

"Mycroft-" cough, "Holmes,"

She tapped in the name. 

"Mycroft Holmes was admitted two hours ago,"

Greg's skin paled and he swore he might be sick. 

"What room?"

Anthea was at the door when he finally found the right one, and she looked rather coldly over him.

"You got here rather quickly," She observed, "I only texted twenty minutes ago."

"I was nearby," Greg lied, "How is he?"

"He's flat-lined twice, but other than that, perfect." 

"Oh my God." Greg gasped, holding a hand over his mouth, feeling dizzy, his world tumbling around him, "Let me see him, I need to see him," He pushed forward, but was stopped by a tight grip on his biceps.

"I don't think that's wise, Inspector, considering his condition,"

"What? What's happened?" 

Anthea grasped him by the wrist and placed something soft and delicate against the coarse warm skin of his palm. 

Greg felt faint at the sight of a single pink flower, drenched in blood. 

It couldn't...

there's no way...

"He loved you," She said softly. "He's always loved you."

_Loved._

Mycroft Holmes...loving him?

Greg's chest heaved, a glowing white sunlight in him, his heart racing.

He immediately pushed open the door, closing his palm around the little flower, protectively, the proof of his love. 

Mycroft looked so peaceful, lying in the hospital bed, the floor littered with soaked red petals and leaves.

"Mycroft!" He whispered, lit with joy, threading his fingers softly around Mycroft's hand. The sleeping, beautiful man didn't stir. "Myc, wake up," He touched his pale forehead with tender care. He was cold.

"He's been put into a coma.They don't think he's waking up, at least until Sherlock gets here and signs the release," Anthea said nonchalantly, her emergency calming skills taken full control.

"Release?"

"For the surgery. So he can be better again,"

Surgery.

Surgery...to make him better....

but he wouldn't love Greg anymore. 

"Can't they wake him? Why can't they wake him? Only a few minutes, that's all I need, Anthea, I can save him!" Greg felt hottness on his cheeks, thick tears in eyes, and Anthea only looked on in shock. She'd never thought she'd see the hardened detective cry, let alone weep. He hung his head over Mycroft's pale, lifeless hand. 

"Please, please don't make them do this, Mycroft, you big idiot, look what we've got us into?! just fuckin' wake up!" Greg choked, his own chest tightening, blossoms crawling up through his lungs. 

"Greg! Greg! You need to go! Nurse!" Anthea shouted as Greg heaved petals to the floor. 

"Sir! Sir you have to leave, you're distressing yourself!" A kind nurse shouted, trying to gently lead him away. Gregory shook his head and held tighter onto Mycroft. 

"I'm not going anyhwere. I'm staying right here until he wakes up," Gregory declared, "he's going to wake up, and I will be here when he does."

He pressed a soft kiss to his dearest's smooth, pale hand, "Please wake up,"


End file.
